"All right, there's something I need to tell you." As Schiller packed up the equipment on his desk, he spoke without looking back at the colleagues he had called into his office. "Whatever I do next has nothing to do with you. If anyone asks you about me, you know how to answer."
"Boss." One of the agents looked hesitantly at the equipment laid out on Schiller's desk—a specially made concealed sniper rifle built into a briefcase, a silenced pistol and two magazines, a tactical knife, Night Vision Goggles and a scope, and an ordinary office laptop. Uneasily, he asked, "What are you going to do?"
"Haven't you ever had colleagues suddenly disappear before?" Schiller did not stop organizing his things. He merely turned his head slightly and asked.
"Uh, but usually that means something went wrong with them," another agent said. "Like they got bought off or something. They'd be arrested soon enough, then secretly tried. Probably."
"That's not what I mean. I mean the ones who received emergency assignments, suddenly disappeared, and never came back."
Everyone else fell silent. One of the younger agents cautiously asked, "So you got an emergency assignment, Boss?"
"No." Schiller shook his head. "I might just be leaving. But don't be sad. We'll see each other again soon."
With that, Schiller took all his equipment—except for his badge, identification, and work uniform—left the FBI base, hailed a taxi, and headed to a bar in Gotham's Old Town.
He had pulled his hat low when he entered, but after sitting down, he removed it, took off his trench coat and set it aside, then opened his laptop. Barbara had sent him messages through the communications app:
"Where did you go? Are you on a mission? I didn't see you on the surveillance cameras."
"Yes,